


Tenderhearted

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Sex, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin's wife worries about him going away on Thorin's quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenderhearted

Savory scents filled the kitchen as you tended to last-minute preparations for supper. Fresh loaves of bread were cooling on the oaken counter, sending wisps of steam curling into the warm air, and you lifted the lid of a large pot on the stove, nodding with satisfaction at the simmering stew within.

Listening for your husband’s step on the threshold of the modest cottage you shared, you went into the sitting room to light the brass lanterns that hung on wall sconces, cheering the cozy room as they glowed into life. You had just stirred up the fire and added another log to the grate when deep voices rumbled outside and a firm hand turned the doorknob. 

Dwalin entered the house, and your lips curved in a delighted smile as you turned to him, smoothing your apron as you went to greet him.

“There’s my azyungâl come home to me,” you cooed, causing an answering smile to light his face.

“Aye, lass,” he grinned, “and I’ve brought a few strays with me.” He gestured behind him, to where Balin, Thorin, Kili, and Fili trooped through the doorway.

“Make yourselves at home, there’s plenty of supper,” you called over his shoulder, receiving their waves and nods of thanks before speaking low to Dwalin. “Give us a kiss, you great bear.”

Pulling him gently by his cloak to bring his lips to yours, you unfastened the cloak’s buckle and removed it from his shoulders to hang it on a hook by the door, smiling at the crimson spots that had risen in Dwalin’s cheeks. 

“If you’ll all find a seat at the table, I’ll dish up,” you said briskly, walking back toward the kitchen and giving Dwalin’s backside a playful squeeze as you passed, at which he blushed to the tips of his ears, turning to glare at a snickering Kili.

“Shut it, laddie, or I’ll throw you out by the scruff of your neck to find your supper elsewhere.”

Kili’s expression suddenly became positively somber, and your guests milled into the dining room, taking their seats and falling into appreciative silence as they tucked into their bowls of stew.

“What news of this venture of yours, Thorin?” Dwalin finally asked, pulling the chair beside him out from the table as you emerged from the kitchen with your own dish.

Thorin took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with his napkin before giving a small nod. “I have sent word to Dain to ask if our kin in the Iron Hills will hear my proposition.”

“’Tis a good place to start,” said Balin, though he shot a fleeting, concerned glance at Dwalin.

“I say we should do it, whether Dain be with us or not,” Kili blustered, and Fili nodded in agreement. “We’re fighters, we’ll be ready for whatever comes.”

“Youth and inexperience,” Dwalin said dismissively, shaking his head. “One meeting with an orc pack will change your tune, lad.”

“Orcs?” You looked accusingly at Thorin. “No one has yet mentioned orcs in connection with this journey.”

Dwalin’s hand found yours under the table. “Any orc filth who should dare to threaten us would soon make the acquaintance of Grasper and Keeper,” he said bracingly, jerking his head toward his pair of axes where they lay on a bench beside the door. 

“Aye, we’ll show them what the dwarves of Erebor are made of,” Fili vowed, as Thorin and Dwalin exchanged wry smiles and Kili gave his brother an appreciative clap on the back.

The conversation drifted into other channels, and by the time the men had cleaned their plates of rhubarb crumble and lit their pipes, the prospect of a dangerous quest seemed to nag only at your mind.

Your guests had gone their separate ways and you and Dwalin were alone, and you watched him as he sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace, his feet stretched out toward the fire’s warmth. The click of your knitting needles and the crackling of the flames were the only sounds as you sat opposite him, and it was only when you looked at the tangle of yarn in your lap and realized that you’d dropped several stitches in your reverie that you stilled the needles and spoke softly to Dwalin. 

“Are you bound to go on this quest of Thorin’s, if he sees it through?”

He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Aye, I reckon I must, if there is truly a chance to take back our mountain…and Thorin will need all the help he can muster.”

“Dwalin, son of Fundin,” you meant to speak sternly, but when he turned to meet your gaze, you could not keep the tremble from your voice, “you look me in the eye and tell me you will come back to me.”

He looked taken aback, but his face quickly softened with an understanding sympathy, and he held out his hand to you, saying quietly, “come here.”

Laying aside your knitting, you placed your hand in his and let him draw you to his lap, where he enfolded you in his brawny arms and kissed your cheek before resting his temple against it. 

“You shall not be rid of me so easily, lass,” he teased gently. “An entire army of orcs couldna keep me from you.”

A begrudging smile tugged at your lips, and you took his face in your hands to look into his eyes. “I will take it as a promise,” you admonished him, and he smiled.

“I have never yet broken faith with you, wife, and I’ve no plans to start. We’ll meet it if it comes, but until then, I would see you happy.” He chucked you softly under the chin. “Hmm?”

Your smile broadened as you nodded, planting a kiss on his forehead and then, tilting his face upward, on his lips. The air in the room changed as the kiss lingered and deepened, and Dwalin’s voice was roughened with desire when next he spoke.

“Tell me,” he asked, a mischievous glint coming into his eye, “should your great bear find any sweet honey, if he were to go looking for it?”

“Don’t you always?” you grinned, and with a low, growling chuckle, he rose to his feet, lifting you as though you weighed no more than a feather and tossing you lightly over his shoulder.

He bore you thus, laughing, into your bedroom, and stood you on your feet once more beside the four-poster bed, turning you to face away from him. You felt your hair swept over one shoulder and a bristly kiss placed upon your neck as his thick fingers began to carefully unfasten the row of buttons that closed the back of your dress.

Liberated of all but your chemise, you seated yourself on the edge of the bed and reached to hook your fingers in his belt to pull him to stand close before you. He looked down upon you with a tender smile, stroking his hand over your tousled hair as you unbuckled his wide leather belt, cast it aside, and pushed his fur vest from his shoulders.

Dwalin went to work to remove his heavy boots and layers of tunic, braces, undershirt and trousers as you settled yourself on a pillow, lying on your side to watch as the burly, battle-scarred body you loved so well was slowly revealed. At last, he climbed into the bed, facing you as he pulled you close to him, his hand cradling your cheek for another kiss. Your fingertips traced the tattoo of your Khuzdul name over his heart, and as you looked into his eyes, his face creased in a radiant smile.

“What is it?” you murmured, finding his smile infectious.

“You’re even more beautiful than the day I married you…flowers in your hair, and all,” he reminisced fondly.

“Men lananubukhs menu, Dwalin,” you whispered, stroking his bearded cheek.

“My azyungâl,” he sighed, and pressed his lips to yours, slowly rolling you, moving to cover your body with his as your palms glided lovingly over the muscular terrain of his back. Your chemise found its way to the floor, and you gloried in his passion and strength and tenderness as the powerful hands that had dealt death to enemies now worshiped your body with the most gentle and skilled of caresses, his gruff voice murmured words of love against your skin.

In the small hours of the night, you were brought from deep sleep into wakefulness by something ticklish against your cheek. Opening your eyes, you found yourself enveloped by Dwalin’s warm bulk, his beard brushing your face as he cuddled you close, unwilling to be parted from you by his slumber. With a small chuckle, you nestled your head more snugly into the crook of his neck, grazing his skin with your lips, and he shifted slightly and sighed in his sleep.

“My great bear,” you whispered fondly, feeling as though no troubles could touch you while you were safe and secure in Dwalin’s arms, and drifted back into peaceful sleep.

* * *

**Epilogue**

The air is cool, and purpling with dusk as you look out of the door of your little cottage, as has become your habit at the end of each day, hoping against hope. Today, your breath catches in your throat when there is a creak of the gate and a bulky form looms at the end of the garden path. 

You stand frozen, weeping, coming to life only when Dwalin takes you in his arms and holds you tightly, his own eyes glistening as you bury your face in his beard, smelling his familiar scent. 

All is well, he tells you. The mountain is ours. Thorin is King. He has come to take you home. 

He gifts you with a necklace of grass-green jewels, but you have eyes only for him. Dwalin presses his lips joyfully to yours again and again, and you share the sweetness of laughter and the salt of tears, and suddenly a small, mewling wail splits the air, echoing from the bedroom. The confusion in his eyes turns to understanding as he gazes, amazed, into your face, and you take his hand, beaming. 

“Come into the house, husband. There’s someone who’s been waiting to meet you.”

 

 


End file.
